A Classic American Drunken Encounter
by Wicked.Intentions
Summary: Nazi Zombies! Suggested Tank/Richtofen. Tank, incredibly drunk, unleashes his affections onto an unsuspecting zombie.


**Disclaimer:** _Call of Duty: World at War_, all characters and settings, and anything else you would recognize as pertaining to this video game does not belong to me. The plot itself belongs to me. I do not intend to make any money off the writing of this fan fiction; it is merely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Title:**_ A Classic American Drunken Encounter._

**Complete Story Summary:** Tank, incredibly drunk, unleashes his affections onto an unsuspecting zombie.

**Story Pairing(s):** Tank Dempsey/Random Nazi zombie, suggested Tank Dempsey/Edward Richtofen.

**Story Rating:** T.

**Chapter Content:** Slightly coarse language, intimate male/male contact, and necrophilia.

**Notes:** …_Someone_ had to write one. But yes, don't bother mentioning it. I know how disgustingly wrong this is. Or is it disgustingly right?

Ever since I got _Call of Duty: Black Ops_ for PS3, I've not been able to stop putting the "Zombies" screen on my television and listening to that piano song for hours. It's inspirational. But since it inspired this, it can't be _that_ good. Eh, really, it's simple: if you're disgusted by or hate these zombies for everything they've done to you in a game of "Nazi Zombies," don't read.

And expect three more. I'm not sure when, but the ideas are there.

* * *

A wobbly-coordinated hand lifted into the air, reaching for the nail that was held out for it to grab. It surged forward, swiping at the nail and missing it completely. It retracted a bit, tensing in determination and a moment of focus, but when it grabbed for the nail again, it hardly brushed it.

"Urgh, Dempsey, just take the damn nail," Nikolai groaned, "and repair window so I can go find somewhere quiet to drink vodka."

"Well," Tank grumbled, "if ya'd stop movin' the damn nail e'ry time I reach f'er it, mehbe I could."

"You speak nonsense, American. Nikolai is not moving nail. It stay in same place the whole time. See?" Nikolai gestured with his other hand to the stationary nail held out to him. "How about I do board instead?"

"No, no, _no_. I can do it."

The Russian sighed heavily, rubbing with a clenched fist at his drowsy eyes. They were going to be here forever. "What is wrong with you, American? You are acting stranger than usual."

"Wha' are ya talkin' 'bout, Nik-Nik-la-ee? 'M fine."

Nikolai shot him an annoyed look at his mispronunciation, dangling the nail between two fingers in front of Tank's face. "Okay, go elsewhere. Nikolai will take care of window."

"Go where?"

"I do not care. Anywhere but here."

With a grunt of understanding, Tank took his leave, stumbling and tripping over nearly every object in his path out of the mainframe.

"Blood-shot eyes, slur, less intelligence than usual, and funny walk. Does he think Nikolai is stupid?" the Soviet muttered to himself, raising his hammer to pound in the nail he was holding steady on a fresh board. "I was like that a couple hours ago." He paused, throwing a jealous look over his shoulder. "Lucky bastard…"

* * *

Tank tripped over the last object he could handle and landed heavily on the dusty, greasy floor with a loud groan. His head was spinning, and it felt too nice to just rest right there on the cold cement than to upset his senses once again by clamoring to his feet.

His lips parted and a bit of saliva tracked down the cheek that was pressed against the floor, quickly forming a small puddle underneath him. A noisy snore escaped him.

* * *

This was it. This was its chance to break in and devour the juicy parts of those living within this abandoned factory. It could feel the heartbeats; smell that bitter life-sustaining fluid coursing through veins, arteries, and hearts; taste the air that passed through nasal passages, bronchi, lungs, bronchioles, and back out again.

A lone deceased, reanimated Nazi soldier dragged itself towards a window through an alleyway that was lit dimly by a flickering light and a dying fire, picking up immediately on the fact that a living being was close by and alone. And by the sounds of its slow breathing, _helpless_.

It threw its arms up, wrapping bloodied, torn fingers around a board that was half-assedly nailed in. With all the strength of the Führer's own, it ripped the board clean off, making hardly a sound. Immediately, it groped at another board, treating it the same. There were about three more boards in its way.

It peered through the window, spotting a blonde man in a green military uniform slumbering on the floor, dead to the world. The Nazi zombie took a moment to grip its own head, nearly shrieking out in pain at its forced reanimation assaulting its brain.

Tank, however, was doing very well, currently caught in a rather erotic dream that appealed to his own fetishes. Accordingly, he became aroused.

The zombie, too anxious to taste that warm flesh, defied all rules and squeezed through the bottom of the window, creating more rips and tears in its once pristine SS uniform. It shuffled over to the sleeping American. If it could salivate at the sight of that pink, smooth skin, it would.

As it was about to bend over and rake its nails over the shaved head and puncture it to end the man's life, Tank let out a noise, reaching out and wrapping a hand around the zombie's boot. He flexed his bicep, yanking the zombie onto the ground. It screeched in outrage at this new and unwelcome development.

Tank, bleary-eyed and still obviously very drunk, climbed on top of the squirming creature, staring down at its disfigured features with a small frown. Slowly, that frown twisted into a seductive smirk when the American realized that he liked what he saw. Or rather, his mind saw.

He straddled the zombie, pinning its hands over its head easily with one of his own.

"'Ey there, sexy," Tank slurred, nearing the angry monster's face, trying to entice it with his smooth lines. "Would ya let me do ya if I was on top o' ya?" Without pausing, he continued, "Good. 'Cause I a'ready plan ta."

He pulled away from the zombie's snapping jaws just in time to keep his nose, looking around, as if suddenly realizing something. "Let's make things a li'l more dirty." Tank pulled open the zombie's military coat, scattering buttons all around them with noisy clatters, and revealed its ruined, once-white collared shirt underneath. With one hand, he tore it in half, stuffing the waded-up cloth into the Nazi's mouth when it was wide open in mid-snarl.

"There…" Tank purred at it. He shifted himself so that the zombie got a crotch full of hard flesh, and the American sluggishly thrust his hips against it, moaning in need. The Nazi zombie didn't seem to share his enthusiasm, its own once-actively used reproductive organ remaining disappointingly soft. It snarled and screeched at him more, desperate to sink its teeth into tissue and bone.

"Babe, y'er so good," Tank complimented, his cheeks flushed and eyes still blood-shot. He continued thrusting, staring down at those glowing, golden eye sockets in fascination.

Tank then decided that he needed something a little less dry and hurriedly undid his pants with his unoccupied hand while moving backwards enough to allow himself room, moving towards the Nazi trousers with equal speed, nearly ripping them down the creature's hips.

He exposed deadened, somewhat sour-smelling flesh, but that mattered not to the aroused American. He let go of the zombie's wrists for a moment, shoving both of its legs towards its chest, forcing it into a position perfect for what Tank planned on doing. He inched closer, dodging flailing arms that were still actively trying to snare prey.

Gritting his teeth in preparation, Tank grabbed himself and began searching for a hole.

Richtofen, who had been strolling by with a body bag of zombie parts he had been collecting, stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that the back of a head he was staring at belonged to Dempsey. He quietly set down his bag and took refuge behind a nearby crate, peering over it to see what the American was up to with distrust and suspicion.

His eyebrows shot upwards when he also realized that a very animated zombie was underneath the American. The more he watched of Tank attempting to have sex with it, the more interested he became. And he began seeing the fellow teammate in a new light. This was… _erotic_.

The living Nazi liked what he was seeing very much, and his lower half agreed with him. He chewed on his lip, wondering if he should surrender to his desires for a moment and get off to this delicious show in front of him.

Ja, that sounded like a good idea.

Tank, unaware of his spectator, finally found the hole he was looking for and forced himself inside, grabbing the wrists again and pinning them above the zombie's head. Awful, muffled screams came from its throat, and it writhed and squirmed in agony below the American, who was hard at work rutting in and out of his vocal partner.

He buried his face in the zombie's neck, panting heavily. It didn't smell very good, but Tank was far from complaining at the moment. He was too focused on the sensations he was receiving.

Tank closed his eyes, daring to go a little harder with his movements, reveling in the sounds that came from the thing beneath him. Its hips spasmed, its legs jerked, its arms lurched, its teeth furiously shredded through the cloth in its mouth. But not once did it become as hard as Tank was.

The American finally tensed after a couple slowed thrusts, throwing his head back in ecstasy, groaning out his pleasure. His significantly tightened grip snapped the brittle bones of the wrists of the zombie, making it howl out in even more agony.

Once Tank had finished riding out the rest of his release, he sagged forward, slumping on top of the zombie exhaustively. He panted against the monster's cheek, releasing the broken wrists, which uselessly dropped to the ground.

Richtofen, his lip bleeding from holding in his screams of delight (he was as vocal as the other rather deceased Nazi), drooped against the crate he was hiding behind, tiredly watching Tank coo sweet nothings to his furious sexual partner.

He wondered if he could get the American to do the same to him. He just hoped it wasn't the "undead" part that the man was attracted to. He would later find out, through rejected subtle, suggestive hints and "accidental" brushes of skin to skin, that Tank wasn't interested at all in other men. He was just a horny drunk.

Nikolai better hold onto his vodka. Richtofen had his eye on it.


End file.
